Nuclear
by dejaceratops
Summary: Eight years of getting and dishing out nightly beatings hadn't inured him to agony, not of this kind. Words can cause pain that physical pain can't touch.


He couldn't breathe. He knew he had to; he was TRYING to, had been for the last two minutes. But his lungs weren't listening. They weren't working. Hot, throbbing pain radiated through his body, its origin somewhere deep in his chest, and he could feel himself getting light-headed, the edges of his vision blurring. Eight years of getting and dishing out nightly beatings hadn't inured him to agony, not of this kind. Not a single fist had been thrown at him, after all. Words can cause pain that physical pain can't touch.

"You…you can't do this."

"I can. I have to."

"NO." His lungs took pity on him and let him take a deep breath in, oxygen surging through his blood, giving new life to his body and sharpening his vision. And his pain.

"Wh…why?"

A shrug.

He felt a brief tick of annoyance tighten his jaw. He studied the man standing in front of him, so close yet farther away than he'd ever been before. While he himself was the picture of tension – shoulders squared, back ramrod straight, hands clenched into tight fists – the other man couldn't look more at ease. Legs spread and arms crossed, features loose and unperturbed, he looked like the epitome of relaxation. Quite frankly, it pissed him off.

"That is NOT an answer. I think I deserve one." He hadn't meant to growl at him, but he couldn't help himself. He didn't understand how he could be so damn calm. He acted as though he'd just said he was going to the gym, as if he hadn't just dropped Fat Man and Little Boy right smack-fucking-dab into the middle of their lives.

He watched as a muscle jumped in the other man's forearm, the soft skin stretched tight over the muscle. He heard a sigh fall into the air and saw his left shoulder rise in another tiny shrug. Still so fucking calm. "She's my wife."

"She's your fucking sperm bank! You love ME!" His voice rang loud and clear through the entire house, bouncing off the sprawling ranch home's high ceilings and surging back to him, allowing him to hear every ounce of pain in each word he'd screamed. Where before he couldn't get enough air, now it seemed he was getting too much – his chest heaved and his head spun as he tried to control his breathing and himself.

A neatly trimmed eyebrow arched over a pale blue eye, the calm in them further irritating the distressed man opposite him. "I do. Very much. …More than you know." He at least had the decency to look down, his eyes meeting the toes of his scuffed boots, his Adam's apple working as he swallowed.

"Then why are you doing this?" His eyes fell to the three gargantuan suitcases lined up beside those old, scuffed black work boots, packed and waiting to be carted away. He could feel his eyes starting to well. _This isn't real_. "I don't understand."

It hurt him more than he could say to see the strong, playful man he loved crumbling before him and to hear the tears he knew were coming in that deep voice. He wished it didn't have to be this way. That he didn't have to break him this way.

_This isn't happening,_ he thought to himself. But as he stood looking into eyes as blue as his own, he knew. He knew he wasn't dreaming. He wasn't hallucinating. His life really was slipping away from him. The realization shot straight down his spine and weakened his knees, and he let out a single, broken sob.

"You asked me to marry you."

There. Behind those calm blue eyes, something flickered to life. Something surfaced.

His voice cracked. "You asked me to _marry_ you."

And the façade crumbled. The high, smooth forehead of his lover creased, a frown marring the beautiful face, and blue eyes slipped closed, a hitched breath tumbling into the air.

"_…Johnny…_"

"I said yes, Randy."

"I know you did. And I've never been so happy in my whole goddamn life."

"Then how can you do this? How can you leave me after asking me to spend the rest of my life with you?" John couldn't stop the tears from streaming down his face if he'd wanted to. He didn't even really notice them in the first place; too focused was he on Randy, watching the calm and collected sentinel dissolve into a conflicted, tortured man. "How can you go back to her?"

"Alanna needs her parents, John. Both of them. We promised. We said we'd do whatever was necessary, whatever we had to for _her_. You made that promise, too. Before we even got together. You promised me you'd do anything to make sure she's okay."

John stared at Randy in amazement, his voice strained. "And she's not ok? Are we talking about the same little girl? Because the Alanna I know is ok. I just saw her. Hell, the Alanna I saw Christmas Day was _more_ than okay. The Alanna I saw was bouncing and laughing and smiling and so goddamn fucking beautiful just like her father, Randy, and I love her like she's my own and you're taking her from me? My family? Why? Because Sam's jealous? Jealous that you and Lanna are happier with me than you _ever_ were with her?"

"Johnny, please-"

"No, Randy! You don't get to do that!" John wiped furiously at his eyes, swatting his tears away, but more kept coming. "You can't call me that. Not right now." His voice fell to a whisper. "It's not fair."

Randy couldn't help himself; he crossed the distance between himself and John in three easy strides and cupped his lover's face, bringing their lips together in a kiss he swore would haunt him for the rest of his life.

John wrapped his arms around Randy's neck, praying with every fiber of his being that _this_ would be enough to change Randy's mind, to keep him from picking up his bags and walking out of his life forever. He wanted it to work. He_needed_ it to work.

Randy could feel all of John's prayers passing through their kiss, and his heart literally throbbed in his chest. He loved the older man with a passion he didn't think he was capable of feeling for anyone who wasn't his little girl, but the goofy, optimistic Superstar had wormed his way through his defenses and firmly settled himself into his soul. It was killing him to cut that piece of his soul away, but he had to. His duty as a father demanded it.

"You feel this?" John whispered gently against his lips. "She gives you normalcy, Randy. But I give you _life_." At the words, a broken sob fell from him, the sound swallowed up by John's kiss, before he broke away, turning quickly to throw the strap of one bag over his shoulder and snatching up the other two and racing towards the front door. He didn't turn around. He couldn't stop to look at him. It would kill him.

"Don't-" John cleared his throat, starting again. "Don't do this." Randy kept walking. "Randy, don't _do_ this!" Nothing. "Turn around? Please?" He could feel himself getting desperate. "Randy, don't! Don't give me everything than take it away from me! I need you! I love you! PLEASE!" John didn't see Randy bite his lip to hold in his sobs, didn't see the tears streaming from his lover's pale blue eyes. As he watched the broad back he'd spent endless nights tracing with his lips and his tongue and his fingertips disappear behind the heavy wooden door and into the Talladega sun, he lost himself, falling to his knees and sobbing like he never planned to stop. He wrapped his arms around himself, clenching his fist around the thick band cutting into his left ring finger, attempting to physically hold himself together even as he felt himself shatter.

The sound of the Hummer's engine turning over and the tires rolling out of the gravel driveway and onto the paved road leading away from home broke John. He curled up into a ball on the living room floor, knees tucked into his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut. Day slid into night slid into day again, and nothing changed. As the world outside moved on, John lay still on the floor, drained of tears but overrun by absolute agony, knowing without a doubt that he'd never be whole again.

_Remember all the things we wanted?  
Now all our memories, they're haunted.  
We were always meant to say goodbye..._


End file.
